


All Your Colors Start to Burn

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Angst, F/F, Face-Sitting, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Old habits die hard, and Joonmi’s already in her bones.





	All Your Colors Start to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> 2015 fic, from the girlexo exchange, girl fic with girl names
> 
> content warnings for: general teenage angst, "figuring out our feelings" sex, underage drinking

Jungda is 18, Joonmi, too, when Jungda breaks Joonmi’s heart, her own in the process. A first discord, first break.

There’s an English exam on Wednesday they should be studying for, and Jungda’s parents will be home in another twenty minutes.

But their clothes are strewn across the room, hanging over various surfaces—Jungda’s desk, her fishtank, her bean bag chair. And they’re lying on Jungda’s bed instead, tangled into each other on Jungda’s polkadot sheets. Impossibly close, after a clumsy, halting, perfect, messy, beautiful first. And Jungda’s heart is still hammering in a restless, speedy tattoo as Joonmi’s fingers trace over her bare skin, skipping as they dance over the jut of her ribs. There’s tenderness, reverence in the slow skate of her fingertips, and Jungda is too content, dazed, strung out to squirm away from it. To put more distance between them. To assess the situation and remind Joonmi, remind herself that they aren’t—she isn’t— _that_. Not yet.

 _No_ , Jungda arches into it instead, with a certain pathetic longing. She breathes Joonmi’s name as the elder maps over the smooth, delicate skin of her inner arm. Joonmi calls her beautiful. Says her name like a prayer. Touches Jungda like she’s fragile, precious, delicate, perfect. Like Jungda is mesmerizing, an exquisitely frail, fleeting thing.

It makes Jungda more painfully aware of the coarseness of her hair, voice, laugh, humor. Makes her feel like she has to measure up. Work to earn the poetry with which Joonmi describes her.

 

And Joonmi is an awful first love.

Jungda _knows_ , has _known_ , since that first, stolen, forbidden kiss 5 months before. Has known through every distinct stumbling stutter step of their stilted, secret courtship. Knows now even in the warm afterglow of orgasm. The reality of it is a sort of dull ache in her temple, a persistent uneasy churning in her chest, a nagging _don’t_ as she shivers under Joonmi’s mindless ministrations. Wills herself into wanting less. Tries to pace herself. Rationalize away the unhealthy ache. The urgent longing.

And Jungda is an awful first love, too.

Unworthy, maybe. Or just too scared to yield completely.

 

They’re eighteen years old. They’re a secret. They’re a clumsy, forbidden, too-dependent thing.

And first loves aren’t—they _aren’t_ —supposed to be like this, Jungda thinks. They’re diary entries. Awkward kisses. Messy feelings. But pretty, pathetic, passing. Cheap, plastic refrigerator magnets not the awful, crushing magnetism of planets.

No, not _this_. Not _now_.

And Jungda _knows_ , for their own sanity, for their own sake, that it’s not supposed to be this intense. This consuming. It isn’t supposed to be like _drowning_. Jungda shouldn’t have to fight not to lose herself in the process. Shouldn’t have to swim against the persistent, heady tug of Joonmi’s vast and terrifying love, Jungda’s own vast and terrifyingly helpless _need_.

Joonmi is not the kind of girl you can love first. Not the kind of girl that lets you go. Joonmi doesn’t afford you a learning curve. She wants it all. Right _now_.

And Joonmi wants her docile. Joonmi wants her hers. Wants her _forever_. Joonmi is too much. Too soon. Too young. They’re both too _young_.

And Jungda is fucking _terrified_.

“You’re like a butterfly, a bird,” Joonmi is saying, fingertips lingering at her wrists. “So small, so delicate, so beautiful. Just fluttering past, but you landed on me. You picked _me_.”

Jungda murmurs her name, shifts lazily into a lingering kiss, and Joonmi drags her hands over the swell of Jungda’s breast. Jungda’s breath catches in her throat.

Joonmi’s next words are spoken against the seam of Jungda’s lips, in a dizzying whisper. “They say girls like you...they don't want keeping...but I just want to keep you,” Joonmi continues. “I love you.” Jungda’s breath hitches at that, too. She stiffens.

The reality becomes sharper, then, cutting through the haze, the warmth as she sits up abruptly, shakes her head. Because Jungda has known that, too. Tried to discourage it, in part. Because she knows that Joonmi’s love, almost by _necessity_ , is selfish, too large, demanding. And Jungda doesn’t need the heaviness of her palm, the tight grip of her heart, the gravity of her _needs_ , too. Doesn’t— _can’t_ —want them either.

“Don’t,” she says.

And Joonmi’s hand is heavy, imploring against her waist, her eyes dark and beautiful and searching. “I love you,” she repeats, softer but no less sure. And Jungda thinks that if this were the English notes Joonmi lets her copy sometimes, this statement would be underlined thrice, highlighted, debossed from how hard she’d pressed her pen.

Jungda recoils, retreats further with a sudden jerk.

“Stop,” Jungda insists, shifting away. She hugs her legs to her chest. Naked and vulnerable. “Don’t. I don’t—”

Joonmi’s hands retreat, but her eyes don’t. They’re heavy on her. Heavy with question, pregnant with need and love. Joonmi just fucking told her she loves her. And Jungda can’t have this be her first “I love you.” _Can’t_. Joonmi is an awful first.

And in retrospect, in the aftermath, Jungda thinks there was great cruelty in this. Malice, though unintentional. Joonmi was naked in her bed, vulnerable in her need, and open, so open. Scared, too, but hopeful. And Jungda, Jungda broke it, then. Broke her. This was her greatest sin.

But Jungda was just so terrified and hesitant and _young_ and Joonmi's love too vast and crushing and titles and words made it too real. And it wasn’t. They weren’t. This isn’t what she wanted. Not _yet_.

“It’s too fucking— _much_ , Joonmi. You’re too fucking—”

“You don’t have to say it back,” Joonmi whispers. Curling, too. Small. Small enough for Jungda to almost breathe again.

“And it’s like I’m not allowed to breathe with you. You’re too—Just _don’t_ love me,” Jungda insists.

“But I _do_. It’s not—It doesn’t have to be...I just love you,” Joonmi insists, reaching out to hold Joonmi’s wrist again. She swipes her thumb against Jungda’s pulse. Like she does sometimes to sooth her. But Jungda doesn’t need soothing. She needs this to _stop_.

“Joonmi, this isn’t,” Jungda starts, stutters, stops. She brushes Jungda fingers away.

And the statement is unfinished, impotent still, but Joonmi understands. She makes this soft, broken sound—halfway between a whimper and a sob—and it’s similar to the sound she’d made just minutes before because of Jungda’s mouth, Jungda’s touch then, too.

Building her up, Jungda will later reflect, only to tear her down.

Joonmi presses her fingers to Jungda’s mouth, cradles her jawline. Jungda’s eyelashes flutter shut out of habit. She can hear the rawness in Joonmi’s voice. “Jungda, I’ve _felt_ this way. It doesn’t have to change what we have. Saying it doesn’t make it more—I can take it back. But I just—”

Jungda opens her eyes, meets Joonmi’s, feels something catch in her throat. Her heart clenches tight. Because yes it has been there for a while but it’s so plain and open and beautiful and terrifying and arresting and desperate and awful.

Jungda’s voice wavers. “We’re not good together,” she decides licking her lips, avoiding Joonmi’s eyes, focusing instead on Joonmi’s small mouth. And her lips are still swollen, impossibly pink, residually slick, a reminder of what they are, what they’ve done. “We want different things.”

Joonmi is fucking trembling, crying, Jungda notes dimly. Jungda made Joonmi _cry_. “Jungda,” she insists, begs. “Don’t.”

“I don’t love you,” Joonmi informs her. “I don’t want to love you. It’s too—we’re fucking 18, Joonmi. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’m not your butterfly. I’m not yours. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

And it’s Joonmi’s turn to recoil.

Joonmi’s perfect teeth bite into her perfect bottom lip. She leaves without further protest.

Jungda texts her friend, next door neighbor Chanyeon. Jungda lets the taller hold her as she fucking trembles from the gravity of her choice.

 

And Jungda is 18—just barely too weeks into 18—the first time she finds out that Joonmi is cruel in her hurt. The jagged pieces of her broken heart make her words sharp, cutting. And all her passion, all her love is inverted, rerouted, twisted inside out into something ugly and awful and harsh and vicious, but just as demanding, just as consuming, just as compelling. Her hatred is palpable.

And it’s Jungda that did the breaking, Jungda that said no, Jungda that decided. But it’s Jungda’s heart that stutters, Jungda’s heart that aches for the former warmth of Joonmi’s hands, smile, eyes.

Joonmi becomes cruel, cold, indignant. Awful, but beautiful for it. Forbidden and unrecognizable, but distressingly familiar. Hollowed out and icy, but still Joonmi beneath it Even if she ignores Jungda’s texts. Sits at a new lunch table. Lets Jungda know, in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t _want_ her anymore.

It’s not a cataclysm. Too soft, muted for a total implosion. And it hits Jungda in parts. Stuttering painful realizations of just how badly she's fucked up. Just how badly she regrets

Joonmi’s eyes are guarded, hooded beneath thick, black eyelashes. Pink lips puckered, dark eyebrows pinched in a perpetual scowl. I caused that, Jungda thinks absently. I made her hard. I broke her. She’s so beautiful.

And Jungda finds herself drawn like a moth to flame. It’s her turn to need. Need outright. Open. Desperate. Pathetic.

18 is an awful age to be pining, an awful waste of youth, but Jungda is helpless to the process, helpless to the _ache_. Try as she might.

Jungda tries to be quiet, subtle. Tries not to let it show.

But it’s hard to be civil, when Jungda broke her heart. It’s hard to be casual when Jungda is still haunted by the memory of Joonmi’s fingertips on her skin.

It’s hard because she regrets and she resents and she resorts to desperate measures to see Joonmi’s face.

It’s painful to cut her out. Equally painful to try to hold on.

Jungda becomes ugly, then. Needy and restless and petty and snarky. She knows how hard to press, which barbs to sling, what words to use to make Joonmi hurt even more. Make her feel just as ugly as Jungda does.

 

And it makes two weeks before they’re crashing against each other. At the bathroom sinks, Jungda catches Joonmi’s eyes, makes a comment about her crooked eyeliner, wrinkled polo. And then the bathroom door knob digging into Jungda’s back as she gasps into Joonmi’s soft mouth.

Joonmi still kisses with her whole body, pressing forward fast, her lips, fingers burning, marking, searching. Only now there’s the added heat of Joonmi’s anger, the twist of small fingers in Jungda’s hair. She tugs, and Jungda groans, arches into Joonmi’s body, presses back against the thigh Joonmi has slotted between her legs.

“Fuck you,” Jungda bites out, and Joonmi does. There’s anger, possession. Sweet sweet only vaguely bitter and wrong as Joonmi slides her fingers in, curling just so. There’s surrender and pathetic need.

Joonmi is hard, demanding, relentless. And it was easy, before, to take for granted how tender and careful and reverent Joonmi can be. How perfect and soft and _loving_. How unlike the Joonmi of right now, biting down on Jungda’s shoulder, moistening the wool as wriggles her fingers even further. She nudges insistently at that perfect, perfect spot.

Skirt hiked up to her ribs, underwear tugged to midthigh, she grinds down on Joonmi’s palm, braves a hand to Joonmi’s own front, fingers just as demanding, head lolling forward to suck a bruise on the pale, heaving column of Joonmi’s throat.

“I hate you,” Jungda breathes out. Just for bite, and Joonmi smiles. Reaches forward to right Jungda’s skirt, slide her underwear into place.

“That’s nice,” she says.

 

It’s a misguided step, maybe. A detour in the full process of closure.

 

But it’s easier, in a way, Jungda reasons. This type of concealed courtship. Safe, santized, stilted as it is.

But the touches awaken latent emotions, feed her longing. And Jungda can’t keep the love—the pathetic _want_ —from pouring of her fingertips, her eyes. It infuses her very being.

She curls easily into it, arches and begs with her body, her words. Joonmi’s skin on her skin feels so fucking _right_.

Jungda aches, bleeds, resents, comes back over and over again. Because her heart is resilient enough to deal with every break but not not to not shatter at the very prospect of leaving. Ending this.

And if this is love—this awful, painful thing—then maybe this is penance, punishment for breaking Joonmi first.

She aches—constantly _aches_ —for the familiarity of her hands, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her love.

 

They have repeats after Choir. During Lunch. One morning before their Student Council practice.

And Jungda is caught up anew.

Joonmi tears down as hard, as ruthless, as she builds up. She consumes in a different way, but she still has Jungda clambering for more, losing herself in the process. And Jungda feels small in an ugly, unwanted way. Not special, not treasured.

“I hate you,” she tells her, sucking it into the delicate, heaving swell of breasts above Jungda’s bra. Sounding like she means it. “I regret you.”

 

“Jungda,” Sehee starts, delicately, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear as she hesitates. She balances her backpack on her lap, jostles it as she bounces it on her lap. “I—Chanyeon told me about before—And I just—I’ve been _seeing_ —”

“Take a side,” Jungda hisses, jerking away, “Or don’t, actually, I don’t fucking care. But don’t you dare fucking lecture me, too.”

Sehee sighs heavily, dips her head to the side to rest it on Jungda’s shoulder, warm and heavy even through the wool fabric. “You’ll be okay,” she says instead.

She isn’t. But that’s okay, at least.

 

“I want to hurt you,” Joonmi confesses again her mouth on a stolen Tuesday morning. Stopping in her achingly perfect ministrations, pressing her face into Jungda’s sweaty collarbone. “I want to—Want to make you cry. Make you—”

And Jungda kisses before she has a chance to continue, break Jungda down into smaller, smaller, uglier, uglier pieces.

This isn’t working, but she doesn’t want it to stop. Not—not yet.

 

The vulnerability disappears that next night. When Jungda invites her over under the pretense of continuing their English study dates.

“Fuck you, fuck _me_ ,” she breathes, spreading her stockinged legs, biting her lower lip in direct provocation.

And Joonmi does. Right there. On Jungda’s bed. A cruel, hollow repeat of before.

Joonmi goes down on her, hooks her elbows around to hold her in place, forcing her to feel, to tremble, to come apart, as she licks her open, slow and sinful.

Jungda pinches her own nipples, writhes down with desperate need, sobs when she orgasms.

 

But it’s a discussion deferred, relegated for another day. Two weeks later, the fluorescent lights buzzing, the shadows harsh as Joonmi slams her against the bathroom stall, tears desperately at Jungda’s polo, sending buttons flying.

“You’re burning me out,” Joonmi breathes, stopping to press her forehead to Jungda’s neck. So her next words are scalding exhalations, white hot, distracting, too much, and Jungda’s head is tipping back with a filthy moan. “You’re using me up. I don’t have much left, Jungda.” And Jungda smothers her next protest with a bruising kiss. Presses her thigh between Joonmi’s thighs to chase away her retort with a helpless moan

And there is excitement, light, heat, chemistry. But sparks—fireworks—cause fires, devastation, and Joonmi’s has always been a scorched policy of love.

 

They were friends before, “friends” during, expected to be friends after. They share a lunch table, a study group, friends—good, real friends— a committee after school.

And their friends, they aren’t completely oblivious. Must have known when something happened, when it broke. They know now that something is wrong. But it only goes as far as meaningful looks, pointed concessions.

They don’t bring it up, but Baekhee switches seats. Chanyeon shuffles their study group. Sehee makes a valiant, but ultimately fruitless attempt to rearrange their Student Council committee.

 

A week later, a lonely peppero day—with only herself to blame, Jungda thinks bitterly—Joonmi squeezes her knee underneath the lunch table, skates manicured nails up her kneecap, traces mindless, maddening patterns on her inner thigh.

And it’s Joonmi’s house this time. In Joonmi's house for the first time ever. Under the pretext of studying for English, Joonmi presses her against her postered wall, peels off only her tights, her panties. She holds Jungda’s hips down with her elbow as she presses her fingers deep inside, eats her out with a certain perfect, overwhelming ferocity.

Jungda collapses when she comes, a boneless, sated heap on Joonmi’s shag carpet, propped on her elbows, neck twisted at an awkward angle, and Joonmi follows her down. So much overwhelming skin.

“You’re mine,” Joonmi insists, nosing along Jungda’s still-quivering thigh. “Nobody else’s.”

And this is what Jungda’s wanted, but not really. Not like this. And the wrongness of it all makes her hard, angry. “I’m not yours, Joonmi. You can’t still—We, we said—”

Joonmi is still speaking against her, soft, slick lips brushing against sensitive, overheated skin. “I touched you first, but I know you best. Better than anybody else,” she whispers. “That makes you mine. Until I let go.”

“You can’t make me no good for anybody else,” she hisses in response. “You can’t ruin me for anybody else. That’s not fucking fair. You’re not my girlfriend. You have no fucking claim.”

“I—”

“Fuck you, Joonmi. This isn’t—I don’t owe you _shit_.”

Joonmi laughs. Hollow, but so warm against Joonmi’s skin, and Jungda breaks out in another wave of goosebumps, skin trembling.

“You’re still mine, Jungda.”

And she's mouths again. Slow and deliberate, hot hot up up _up_ , and Jungda threads her fingers through Joonmi hair, whimpers helplessly as Joonmi licks her open. So warm and wet and wanton, murmuring “Mine” in between every slow, slick glide of her tongue. By the time, she slides a finger inside, shifts to suck on her clit, Jungda is too affected to protest the point further. Moaning and grinding out another quiver-inducing orgasm against Joonmi’s puffy, painfully pink lips.

(Jungda feels weak, pathetic, bad, wrong wrong _wrong_ , but helpless to stop)

 

And they don’t talk about it. Don’t _fuck_ about it either. Jungda starts eating lunch by herself at her own desk to avoid Joonmi.

 

But there are still commitments, overlapping schedules. The family they adopted for the Christmas season, the shopping trip they’re supposed to go on. Together.

They do, that Thursday.

The air is different, the tension pleasantly absent, and Jungda doesn’t want to question it. Just wants to revel in this, the eye of the storm.

They take the subway to the department store, Joonmi holds the list, rings off items while Jungda scans the aisles, rifles through clothing racks. And Joonmi is laughing, chiding Jungda for her choices before finally intervening. Joonmi makes a show of folding the “unacceptables,” pontificates on the best patterns, best fabrics, and Jungda aims a cardigan at her mouth to shut her up.

And it’s almost like before. Maybe even before that _before_ when they were just friends. Without any of the heaviness of love or devastation. They’re still giggling when they pay, still leaning into each other when they board the subway.

Joonmi takes out her own credit card, buys Jungda an ice cream cone for her trouble.

They’re drowning under the heavy fabrics, laughing as they drop them on the wooden table in the Student Council Office.

Joonmi’s hand closes around her wrist, and she’s asking to walk her home.

Jungda is vulnerable, drunk on the memory of Joonmi’s smile today. The sound of her laugh—her _real_ laugh—and the feel of her hand leading Jungda around the chilly city, it feels like before. When they were something more, trying to hide it. Instead of something less, but still—still unsafe. And Jungda is especially needy. Initiates this time.

She pulls Joonmi into her room, presses her into her bed. Eats her out like she has something to prove.

(We can work, if we’re both willing to change. We can work, so say you want to please. And want me want me want me. Love me love me love me.)

Joonmi tangles one hand in her hair, holding her tight as she grinds down on her face, gasping Jungda’s name all the while. And Jungda is gasping, too. Moaning into her wet heat, savoring the tangy taste of it as it coats her tongue, her lips, her chin.

And she thinks that this is all she could ever, ever want. Joonmi reduced to a beautiful mess because of her. Writhing and wrecked just for her. Jungda tasting every helpless, desperate ripple of arousal, the warm velvet tug of Joonmi’s body around her probing fingers, questing tongue.

This is everything that Jungda wants. Everything that Jungda needs.

But also the exquisite, beautiful after of Joonmi tugging her upwards, urging Jungda to use her. Jungda sits on Joonmi’s, rolls her hips down until she can’t any longer and Joonmi’s guiding her pace. A mess of puppet limbs, limp, thrumming, Jungda jerks weakly, whines desperately as Joonmi takes her apart.

It’s too much, too too perfect, and Jungda collapses back only for Joonmi to follow her. Fingers still pressed inside, she tilts Jungda’s hips up. Continues to take until Jungda is seizing up then trembling as she comes.

And Jungda lays there afterward, legs draped over Joonmi’s in the most painfully possessive, needy way. And she thinks maybe, it’ll work. Voices it as she watches a bead of sweat slide lazily down Joonmi’s bare breasts. And her hands follow her gaze, as she mouths her way down Joonmi’s smooth, salty skin.

It doesn’t. She know it doesn’t and that it won’t. That their incompatible for the time being. That she won’t even want it come morning time.

And maybe Jungda wasn’t meant to ask for more. Doesn’t deserve it, she decides. Not after what she did to Joonmi.

Joonmi won’t afford her a learning curve, and Jungda, Jungda shouldn’t have one anyway.

“Stay,” Joonmi urges afterwards, anyway. “Stay the night. You know my parents won’t mind.”

Joonmi tugs her into her embrace, doesn’t let go when Jungda protests. She holds tight, and Jungda goes boneless in her arms. Joonmi traces slow circles along her shoulder bones, her ribs.

“I can’t—if I can’t have you. What’s the fucking point, Jungda?” she whispers much, much later.

Jungda pretends to be asleep.

 

It still isn’t _right_.

 

And they keep falling into each other, only to fall apart. It hurts. It hurts. But the in-betweens, the hitching softness of Joonmi’s moans, the heady brush of her skin, the soft sweet smell of her hair, it tides Jungda through. Has her addicted, unable to let it go.

It takes everything out of her, drains her, this heady, confusing push-and-pull. Old habits die hard, and Joonmi’s already in her bones.

 

In History, Joonmi raises her hand to contest Jungda’s argument. Raises her eyebrow, too, purses her lips as she details the finer points of the British occupation in China.

 

The next period is a free one. And Joonmi pants against Jungda’s open mouth, continues to push and push until there’s a second finger, curling just right, and Jungda is biting her lip to stop herself from confessing her love right then. Right there.

Brazen, craving, broken, desperate, she doesn’t even try to smother her moans. Almost wants to be caught. Wants this—this hidden, ugly, awful thing— to be known. Her arm bangs against the door, her head smashes against the wall, and her shoes squeak against the linoleum as moans, fucks down onto Joonmi’s perfect, perfect fingers.

 

And Jungda still doesn’t want to be a doll, a soft perfect thing for Joonmi to love. But this—this isn’t right either. And she wants to be needed as more than just an outlet for aggression, for resentment, wants to be more than just a way to dull the pain.

(Wants to stop using Joonmi towards the same ends. Stop being so selfish, needy in turn)

She wants a resolution. But she can’t—can’t stop this. Will settle as long as her heart can bear it.

Joonmi is the uncertain, the unstable, a pregnant pause, a heavy unsure. Jungda is drowning drowning drowning. Too far gone to grope blindly for the shore.

 

There’s a dance fundraiser. They’re encouraged to bring a date, and Jungda can practically see the question in Joonmi’s eyes.

“I’m not your girlfriend,” Jongdae reminds her. Just to hurt her. Just to watch the little broken flicker of sadness flicker across Joonmi’s too-dark eyes. “It’s selfish of you to want more from me.”

 _Be_ , Joonmi’s fingers seem to communicate. And it’s almost like that first time, then, Joonmi touching her like she’s overwhelmed. It’s not usually this soft. Not since that first time. Joonmi usually doesn’t hold her hand. Jungda usually doesn’t cry. And Joonmi, Joonmi doesn’t usually kiss her afterwards, slow and tender, cupping her face, Jungda sighing into her mouth, curling into her embrace.

 

That next week, it’s back to it’s normal pace. Punishing, harsh, about making Jungda fall apart. Leaving her broken and vulnerable as Joonmi claims and claims and claims.

And as Jungda comes, trembles through it with a bitten off whimper, hips undulating wantonly upwards as she moans, Joonmi doesn’t try to hold her. She puts as much space as possible between their quivering, naked bodies.

 

Joonmi asks Kyungsoon—her new seat partner—to go. She’s nice enough, quiet, smart, buxom, pale, soft, soft. She’s beautiful in a harsh, coarse, contrasting, intimidating kind of way. But soft, too, to make up for it.

And the jealousy prickles up Jungda’s spine, burns hot underneath her skin.

Jungda asks Sehee. Wears a too-short, too-tight dress. Heavy makeup, a tight smile. She grinds up on Sehee. A random boy. Chanyeon. Jungda laughs overloud, bumps into Joonmi more than once on purpose, in a pathetic show of desperation.

Sehee drags her away after the third time, drags her home.

At the 7-11 near her house, Jungda, Sehee still in tow, shivers in her dress, begs some college boys to buy her soju. Cradles it as she stumbles into her own room. Promises Sehee that she’ll be okay as she collapses into bed. Makeup smeared, dress unzipped, green bottle cocked towards her mouth.

Jungda drinks half a bottle. Enough to feel the buzz. Enough to feel the need. Enough to be groping for her phone, dialing Joonmi’s number as she unzips her dress fully, rests her free hand idly against her navel.

“Jungda, I’m kind of—”

“Joonmi,” Jungda moans, slurs, interrupt. “Fuck you for not fucking me tonight.”

On the other end, Joonmi chokes. Murmurs something. _To Kyungsoon_ , Jungda thinks bitterly, spreading her bent knees, dragging her thumb against the elastic waistband of her lace panties (She’d worn them special, had come so hard at the thought of Joonmi licking her through the damp fabric, smearing her dark red lips on the white lace, moaning into her like she always does, _savoring_ the way Jungda coats her tongue)

“Where are you?” Joonmi asks. Closer now, by the sound. Her voice is soft disappointment, soft disregard, and Jungda is pathetically, disgustingly turned on.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jungda breathes, skimming her fingers teasingly. “I’m here touching myself, thinking of you.” And Joonmi lets out this soft sound. Jungda barrels on. “What would you do if you were here? How would you touch me? What would you do? Tell me. Make me feel wanted, Joonmi.”

There’s a shuffle, another muted murmur. She’s probably telling Kyungsoon she has to go to the bathroom to take this call.

“Tell me,” she urges. “Touch yourself while you’re on your date. Let everybody I’m the one that makes you come. The only one you want. The only one that matters.

Joonmi curses, relents.

And Joonmi is describing it, promising to act out Jungda’s every fantasy. Saying how sometimes she dreams of leaning forward one day to touch her underneath the table. In front of all their friends, Jungda biting back whimpers, trembling with the desire to fuck forward into the press of Joonmi’s fingers.

And it’s so good, Jungda’s own fingers, Joonmi's husky, heated words. Joonmi pants as Jungda whimpers. Begs for more.

“Keep going,” she urges. “I’m so close. Would you—fuck—would you mark me up afterwards? Pull my hair, bruise my hips, bite my neck?”

“ _Yes_ , Jungda. I would leave no room for doubt that you’re _mine_.”

The words send Jungda over the edge, and her toes curl, limbs spasm, jaw goes slack, eyes clench shut as she comes.

The come down is catastrophic, and a sob lodges itself in her throat. She feels exposed, lonely, scared, too too too vulnerable. Too needy.

She starts to cry, and Joonmi’s calls out her name in mild alarm.

“You keep reminding me,” Joonmi hiccups, hand sliding out, slick and shameful. “Keep reminding me that I’m not good enough for you. Or this. Do you even want me?”

Joonmi’s breath catches, and she inhales sharply through her nose. She’s probably pinching the bridge of it, closing her eyes to calm herself down.

“Of course I fucking do, Jungda. Why do you think—why do you think we keep fucking doing this? But you’ve always been so fucking _dense_ about this. You—You can’t keep being scared to need me back,” Joonmi breathes across the wire. “You can’t keep being scared of what I feel, what I am, what _we_ are. You fucking can’t, Jungda.”

“You want me—you want a fucking doll,” Jungda sobs back. “You don’t want me. Not the real me. You just want this fucking passive, begging, pathetic thing to love and that’s not—I’m over you. I’m over _this_. I don’t need you anymore. I’m drunk, and I’m sad. Please leave me alone.”

Jungda hangs up the phone.

 

They don’t discuss it. Don’t allude to it. Joonmi pretends she was blackout drunk. Joonmi hesitates the slightest, an extra trepidation, a certain startling hesitance to her touches, but Jungda tugs on her hair, bites her bottom lip, and they resume their prior arrangement without further hitch. Jungda doesn’t ask about Kyungsoon, what she and Joonmi are. Doesn’t want to break her own heart.

(They’re not girlfriends, Chanyeon reassures her via text, anticipating Jungda’s insecurity. Or at least not exclusive because Kyungsoon said yes to getting coffee with Chanyeon on Saturday)

 

They have a sleepover on Saturday. There’s possession, urgency in Joonmi’s touches. Possession, urgency in Jungda’s, too. But she can hardly keep up.

Joonmi’s eyes are hard, heavy, her fingers self-assured, bold, probing and plumbing in the most deliciously, relentlessly perfect way.

And Jungda is jerking through orgasm, biting back endearments, arching heavily, desperately, needily into Joonmi’s firm hold

 _I’m gonna break you_ , Joonmi’s body seems to say, _I’m gonna fucking ruin you_.

And Jungda can’t help but love it.

And in the aftermath, sweat glistens on Joonmi’s brow, between her bare breasts.Hair matted to her forehead, eyes heavy-lidded, lips bitten, she is beautiful in an I-cant-have-her-anymore-and-she’s-not-re

 

 

ally-mine sort of way, which Jungda thinks is truly the worst.

And sometimes, sometimes Jungda almost hopes that if she relents, says the right words, smooths out all the rough edges to become that soft thing that Joonmi loved once upon a time. Then maybe, maybe—

But that’s cruel, too.

And their love isn’t a rough diamond, a tragic beauty, a broken star-crossed affair. The fingers that once molded, a mouth that once treasured. Now there is a bruising, biting harshness. Joonmi devouring her, instead. Until there’s nothing and she’s empty and ugly. And this isn’t the kind of forever that Jungda wanted. This isn’t the kind of first love she wanted, either. This incomplete, half-revived, ugly, awful thing.

So she stays silent, traces her fingers. Says with them what she’s too scared to say aloud.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joonmi observes quietly, reverently, running her hand lengthwise down Jungda’s body. The pads of her fingers skim over her collarbone, trace patterns— make constellations—mole to mole.

And it’s almost—almost enough.

Still wrong.

 

The next week—the start of Winter Break, they build a snowman together, make snow angels, stumble back into Jungda’s room. Rosy-cheeked, wind-burned staticky from all their wool.

Jungda tackles Joonmi into her mattress, nuzzles noses until Joonmi’s hair is standing on end. She laughs, presses a kiss to the corner of Joonmi’s mouth.

Joonmi reaches forward, cradles Jungda’s face.

“There’s never a dull moment with you,” she muses, tender, soft, fond like before. And Jungda _wants_ something dull. Wants something boring and domestic and _normal_. Healthy. She wants _this_ to stop because _this_ is not enough. Hasn’t been since the very beginning. And it hurts, this almost, this just barely, this not nearly enough.

“How do we—what’s the endgame?” Jungda asks softly, pulling away just the slightest to meet her eyes, still arching needily into the cup of Joonmi’s palm. “What are you hoping to accomplish with this?”

Joonmi’s eyelashes flutter in a stark, startling sort of deja vu.

And it’s only fair that Joonmi is the one to break it this time. Fair to give her the power this once. It makes for a nice, fucked up sort of symmetry.

“No, you’re right,” Joonmi says after a long, long time, biting her lower lip. “Let’s stop this.”

 

Jungda isn’t sure if she’s allowed to cry as hard as she does that night. Burying her face into her pillow, smothering her hiccups, her wails as her entire body wracks with sobs.

Because it isn’t real, after all. This safe, sanitized in-between. But oh, how it hurts.

 

There is no reconciliation after that. Regrettably, thankfully, Jungda is forced to feel the full gravity that comes with the death of first love. 9 months from her 19th birthday, adulthood still looming in the horizon as she trembles with the aftershocks of a thwarted, broken heart.

I’m happier now, Jungda tries to communicate with her hollow, ringing laugh. I’m happier and better off. Here with people that aren’t you.

And it almost becomes true, this projection that she creates for the sake of her pride.

Jungda’s senior year passes in a drone of empty smiles, bleeding heart strings. Exams, college applications, letters of recommendation, after school activities, teary, heartfelt goodbyes.

Joonmi gets into her first choice, five subway stops from home. She majors in Education, rooms with Philosophy major Sehee. Adjusts well to the change. Forgets Joonmi in the white noise of new adjustments, new challenges.

(She doesn’t know if Joonmi is still in her bones, but she’s learned to ignore the _ache_ )

 

The first year, Jungda dates a boy, later a girl.

Has sex for the first time with somebody that isn’t Joonmi. But the mechanics are similar, the touches, kisses known, and Jungda has her sobbing on her bed in no time, writhing with it as she gasps Jungda’s name. Three fingers deep, mouth fused tight, Jungda moans into her as she relishes in the new, heady taste of her.

Jungda is pulled her into a messy, needy kiss, before the favor is being returned. Jungda’s pulled up, balancing her weight on the headboard, thighs bracketing flushed cheeks as she rocks down, trembles and moans and comes apart.

They break up three months later. Too many commitments, not enough compatibility. Jungda cries, lets Sehee wrangle her into a romantic comedy marathon, but she recover soon after. Studies. Works. Joins a poetry class, starts going to the gym.

 

Jungda is 2 days from 20 when Joonmi makes her presence known anew.

 

She’s visiting Sehee.

Jungda doesn’t begrudge her friendships. Knows they’ve kept in touch. (Sehee never picked a side that morning, after all)

Jungda is quiet and awkward, feels small and scrutinizied when Joonmi pauses by the door to smile at her. Tight and fake and ugly, Jungda hates it. But returns it in kind.

And Jungda, despite her better nature, despite her growth, resents, _aches_. And Jungda was over her. She _was_. But Joonmi is too familiar. Too haunting. Known. Beautiful. Nostalgia and almost innocence.

 

Sehee and Joonmi go out to dinner, and Jungda cleans the apartment, eats alone.

Sehee invites Joonmi inside. Leaves to run “errands.” She’s giving them space, she knows. An avenue for discussion. “Setting the ball into motion” because she’s too idealistic and romantic for her own good. And Sehee still believes that maybe they’ll work something out. Maybe—maybe they were just too young, too naive, too childish before, but maybe—maybe they really are meant to be.

Joonmi lingers in the kitchen. Hip pressed on against the blue tiled counter. Awkward and uncomfortable, too, and Jungda—a small ugly part of her, at least—revels in that.

Jungda turns her back to her as she continues to wash the wishes. There’s tension, but she’s learned to ignore it. Learned to make do.

Joonmi abandons all pretense as she continues to stare at her.

“I don’t know what you're expecting, Joonmi, but I don't want you,” Jungda insists, turning to meet her eyes, filling the silence. “I don’t. Not like that. Not anymore.” And where there might have been bite, anger once, now there is only resignation, hurt, helplessness. But firmness.

And Joonmi is raising one perfectly arched brow, lips twisting into a familiar smirk. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

Jungda jerks at that but continues to wash the dishes. She scrubs harder at a particularly offensive spot, stays silent, limbs trembling with indignation, with _want_ still. It’s been awakened, the familiar, terrifying _need_.

And Joonmi is pressing to her back, arms reaching around, slithering down to her waist. “How do you want me? If you want me at all?” She noses her way up Jungda’s throat. “Tell me you want me, Jungda.”

And of course, she does. Of course, after all this time.

Jungda melts back, body seeking further contact of its own volition.

“Fuck me,” she breathes. And she can feel Joonmi’s smirk against her throat.

And it’s an easy task, the only thing that makes sense right then. Channeling all the rage, all the hurt, all the feelings—the overwhelming, too big feelings, still too present feelings—into a messy, ill-advised once more.

They stumble-kiss, stumble-moan, stumble-grope their way onto Jungda’s dorm issue twin mattress.

And her heart’s not in the right place, but her skin is. Her pale, beautiful, soft, soft skin. Only Jungda’s to touch right then.

And it feels like a type of penance and type or resolution as Joonmi’s finger slide inside of her, ease her open, increasing their pace, pressing even harder, curling up to press just _so_.

There’s no pretense in it. Just too-familiar skin, kisses, moans, touches that Jungda knows will haunt her in the aftermath. Comfort, too.

And they _both_ decide. Then and there, Jungda pulling her bare legs to her chest, Joonmi silently groping for her own clothes. Joonmi lingers at the door for a beat, lower lip caught between her teeth, hair in her eyes, but she decides better of it. Leaves without a further goodbye.

Jungda doesn’t cry this time.

She stares up at the ceiling for a long, long time. Collecting her thoughts. Allowing the mourning. But she has readings to do. Discussion questions to answer. Joonmi isn’t everything anymore.

And it still hurts, but it’s more manageable. Jungda has learned to cope with time.

Jungda isn’t in her bones, in her heart. Just a tangy aftertaste on her tongue, a smear of red lipstick on Jungda’s thighs, the lingering smell of vanilla on her sheets.

 

20, 21 go without much hitch.

Jungda dates again. A boy for 5 months. A girl for 7 months. And it’s working. She’s working.

 

The next time they meet is at 22. Days before graduation. Sehee’s, Jungda’s.

Jungda has moved on. She’s broken hearts. Had her heart broken since then. Her smile is more genuine this time, still strained, exasperated when Sehee leaves them alone.

They’ve switched dorms since then. They have a couch, a love seat, Joonmi sits on the former, Jungda on the latter. She’s wearing a sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, and she looks so small. Hesitant.

She wrings her hands. “She isn’t subtle,” Joonmi voices after a while. “She still—she tells me she still thinks that maybe—”

Jungda looks up, meets her eyes for a beat. It’s enough to make her want again. And it really isn’t fair. For somebody so tiny, so unassuming to be so much, so large and imposing and important. After all this time.

“She’s misguided,” Joonmi decides. “She’s so wrong.”

Jungda starts at that, jerks at that. “Why?”

“How many times are we gonna try this before we realize that we’re broken, Jungda?” She laughs bitterly. “And why does it hurt so—so much to admit that maybe, maybe we need to leave each other for good?”

“I—I still think—”

Joonmi raises an eyebrow, shifts closer, but closes her body off. Arms crossing in front of her. Legs pulled to her chest. “After, after all the fuck ups? _Really_?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Jungda whispers in response, leaning closer, too. “And yes, I still— _yes_ , okay? I still want...”

“Fucking fuck, we can’t keep _doing_ this, Jungda. I _refuse_ , all right? I don’t want you use you to make me hate myself anymore.”

But no, Joonmi can’t _not_ be an option. Joonmi can’t decide she doesn’t want her back.

“It’s not a continuing pattern, Joonmi. We’re different people now. I _see_ it. And yes, I still want it. I still want you. I wasn’t ready before, but you weren’t either, Joonmi. You—you used me. You _hurt_ me. Because it was—Sehee is right, we weren’t right or ready, then. But we both are, can be now. And fuck, I need you to want me back, right now. Not love. Just fucking _want_. Just give me one more chance. I’m not ready—”

“This doesn’t revolve around you, Joonmi! That isn’t enough. Not worth the shame or regret or self loathing, your _want_ , your inability to let go.”

“But it _should_ be,” Jungda squirms, voice getting smaller. “Because I want you. Because I—love you. Because I know—I know I fucked up, but, Joonmi, I want you so much. I want to try. I want—I want us to—.”

“I’m not gonna let you break my heart anymore, Jungda,” Joonmi interrupts, tone firm, but voice wavering. “And I’m not gonna break yours anymore either. We can be friends. Can actually try, but I’m tired of this ugly, awful in-between. I’m tired of hurting and regretting and trying at this thing that died long, long ago.”

And no, this isn’t an option. No, she has to make this right. Because if they aren’t fucking, aren’t fighting, there’s nothing—nothing there. And Jungda still can’t bear the thought of that awful, crushing _nothingness_.

“I was scared,” Joonmi whispers, eyes bright.

“You think I wasn’t? Fuck, Jungda, I was _asking_. I was _begging_ you to love me back. To _care_ about me. To—to acknowledge what we had, and you—you fucking _broke_ me. And to think that somehow—”

“You wanted me soft for you!” Jungda protests weakly.

“I wanted you _for_ me, Jungda. That’s all I wanted. That’s all I cared about. That’s all I care about. But you just—you hold me, kiss me, fuck me like you mean it. And then you just think you can leave. Just fucking disengage like it was— _we_ were—nothing.”

“I was there. I was yours in those moments. It was selfish to—”

“Want a fucking relationship? Fuck, you think that was enough?” Joonmi laughs. Bitter, too loud. “You actually fucking think, Jungda? Nobody fucking knew. Not even _you_. How important and beautiful we were. How special, Jungda. Everything after has just been a shadow of what we had. And “I—I was okay with nobody else knowing I was yours. But you didn’t even fucking know. You didn’t fucking want me the same way. And then we just—became this ugly, awful thing from our hurt. And we’re still—we’re still—”

A sob lodges itself in Jungda’s throat, but the sound escapes nonetheless.

“We’re too old for this,” Joonmi insists. “We’re still—I still can’t be who I was in fucking high school. I can’t be doing the same thing. We’re better than this. We are different. We have grown. To know better than to keep indulging this, Jungda.”

“That’s—that’s all your good for,” Jungda counters icily, suddenly. “Moralizing and pontificating and patronizing and making me feel ugly and unwanted. That and fucking me.”

“And yet here you are, _insisting_.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“I don’t—I don’t want to have angry-trying-to-forget-how-ugly-you make-me-feel sex, Jungda. I don’t want to taint the memory of what we were. What we both we let die.”

“Then don’t. Then just— _forgive me_ , Joonmi. Forgive yourself. Please. I can’t—please just don’t leave me.”

Joonmi sighs in resignation, defeat, her breathing sounds wet, labored, and when Jungda looks up. It’s to see her _crying_ , silently, shoulder shaking.

“I can’t—Not when you…” Joonmi is completely curled into herself now, speaking to her knees, and Jungda slides forward on her own knees, crawls over to press her teary face to Joonmi’s thigh, murmuring softly into the soft, quivering skin. “Tell me you love me again,” Joonmi whispers. “But mean it. Not in anger. Not to hurt me or convince me. Just because you feel it, and you want to let me know.”

Jungda says it again, hands sliding up to pull back Joonmi’s hands, cup her face. “I love you,” she says.

Joonmi lets out this soft, broken sound, leans forward to kiss her.

 

It's been a while, but Joonmi remembers. Of _course_ , she remembers.

Knows how to touch just exactly to touch to singe every single nerve ending, have Jungda moaning obscenely. Kisses dirty and slow and deep deep deep.

And there’s tenderness, forgiveness, softness, even as Joonmi tugs at Jungda’s clothes, her own, tugs her naked and trembling to straddle her waist.

There’s reconciliation as Joonmi coaxes her even higher, slick rubbing against Joonmi’s navel, her breast, higher higher as Joonmi sinks back against the sofa’s floral arm.

“Grind down on my face,” Joonmi breathes. “Show me how you want it, baby girl.”

Jungda moans just as loud at the endearment as the suggestion, as the actual action. She jerks, but smooths it out. Fluid but no less eager, she undulates. Down on Joonmi’s tongue, lips, nose, chin. A rocking back and forth that has her breasts heaving, her hips swaying to a slow, sinful rhythm.

Joonmi moans against her, fucks her tongue even deeper, more slickly inside. And Jungda whimpers more desperately as she glances down. Takes in smeared lipstick, hooded eyes, matted hair, in her eyes, plastered in tendrils to her forehead. Joonmi, perfect, beautiful, aloof Joonmi, a mess because of her.

Joonmi fucks two fingers inside, scissors them open, curls to drag against Jungda’s slick pulsing desire, and the pleasure is staggering. Molten-hot as it shoots up her veins. She’s so close. She’s so fucking close. Gonna come. Gonna come. Gonna come.

Joonmi’s free hand shifts to rub teasingly over Jungda’s clit, and Jungda lurches forward almost violently, fingernails scraping over ugly floral upholstery as she whimpers.

Jungda locks her hips in place, arches back to braces her weight on Joonmi’s spread thighs, and Joonmi licks her lips absently, eyes still focused on Joonmi's core.

They’re so fucking slick, glistening with Jungda's reckless, ready response.

Joonmi runs her hands up to thumb at Jungda’s hipbones, palms curling around to press against her ass. She urges Jungda back towards her mouth.

"Please," she groans. "Keep going, baby. I want you so much. I love you so much."

Poised as she is, Joonmi can see the way Jungda's body pulses at that admission

"Come on," Joonmi repeats, even huskier.

"I want to. You, too. _Please_."

“Turn over,” she says.

Jungda does, a little clumsily, limbs loose as she maneuvers her way around. The couch’s material is harsh, scraping, grounding, _delicious_ against her overheated, oversensitive skin. And Jungda buries her face in the sweet, sweet place between Joonmi’s thighs.

Joonmi back bows, body seeking out her mouth further, and she’s so perfect, slick, hot, thick on Jungda’s tongue.

Her own body throbs even harder, clenching in arousal. And Joonmi renews her ministrations, invigorated, thorough, devastating.

Joonmi introduces her fingers anew. The most delicious fullness, the most gorgeous, exquisite stretch when Joonmi introduces her fingers, laps sloppily between them. And Jungda clenches her fingers tight on Joonmi’s hips, sucks hard on her clit.

She begins to hum, moan louder louder louder as she gets closer and closer. She can hardly manage the occasional lick, caught up as she is.So she lets her mouth hang open, tongue hardened, probing clumsily.

And Joonmi does most of the work on both ends. She fucks Jungda open with her tongue, fucks upward into Jungda’s open slack mouth, seeking out the shuddering friction as she whimpers.

She doesn't let up in her own perfect, perfect technique.

And it’s explosive, bone-deep, when Jungda comes. Shooting through her limbs, rendering her temporarily immobile as she writhes with it. Mouth open, still so that Joonmi can continue to grind against her mouth, chasing—finding—her own release with a bitten off whimper.

“I—I,” Jungda starts as Joonmi flips her over, pulls her bare, sweaty body against her own.

“Me, too,” Joonmi whispers. “Me, too.”

And Jungda is 22, Joonmi, too. When they decide to try to love each other again. Love each other right. A final, hesitant reconciliation. A final, hesitant resolution. 


End file.
